Splash - One Tanker

Splash one Tanker!

We are facing into the setting sun as we line up on the runway. By
looking to my right, I see my colleague Danny Martin. I know that it is
Danny because we walked out to our aircraft together. Because of the
silver helmet and the tinted visor his face is not visible and I know
that he has the same perspective of me. Side by side, we are poised at
the end of the runway. Over eight thousand feet of asphalt extends in
front of us as we await clearance to go.
Through the headphones inside my helmet, I hear Wing Operations clear
us for take-off. All of the fidgeting with harnesses has long since
been carried out and we are ready to take to the air. I acknowledge the
transmission and raise my gloved hand as a signal to Danny. Although I
cannot see into his cockpit, I can tell from the way the nose of his
aircraft dips that he is running both of his engines up to full power.
He is aware that I am doing likewise. I press my toes forward on the
brakes and release the parking brake. My raised right hand drops
smartly and I release the brakes. In perfect harmony, both of our
aircraft rock slightly then bound forward. Check on the gauges. Both
engines delivering full power. Temperatures and pressures good.
Airspeed increasing. I glance to my right. Danny is perfectly on
station. There is a distance of twenty feet between our wingtips.
I feel the pressure of acceleration as we pass the point where we are
committed to fly even if we have a failure of some description. To
attempt to stop now would result in a long and embarrassing excursion
off the far end of the runway. The aircraft feels light and I know we
are ready to fly even without reference to the airspeed indicator. From
the corner of my eye, I see Danny's aircraft lift off the ground. I
ease the control column back and suddenly, the rumble of the wheels on
the runway ceases. I snap the landing gear selector to the up position
and I hear the hydraulic jacks pull the wheels up into the wells and
close the doors.
Danny and I have agreed that we will stay low after take-off. We are
twenty feet off the ground and travelling at almost two hundred miles
per hour as we flash over the red and white caravan at the end of the
runway. I turn my head to the right and point upwards. Danny raises his
hand in acknowledgement. Hard back on the stick and I feel my body
weight quadruple as we scream upwards. The two Bristol Siddeley
Sapphire engines in the Javelin will stay at full power until we have
reached our first operating altitude of twenty-four thousand feet. The
climb to that height will take us less than six minutes. In the rear
cockpit, John Waterstone my navigator is warming up his radar gear in
preparation for the exercise we are tasked to perform. The term
'navigator' is somewhat of a misnomer. The man riding behind me is
responsible for finding our target, getting us pointed in the correct
direction when it is time to go home and a myriad of other tasks. They
have a jaundiced view of life. Navigators view pilots in the same way
that a film star views a chauffeur. We are there, in their opinion,
only to convey the four missiles carried on the wings of our Gloster
Javelin to a position appropriate for firing at a target. They only
grudgingly acknowledge the part we play in getting the aircraft into
the air and back down again.
At the required height, I ease the control column forward and reduce
power to our cruise setting. Even at this reduced power, our mount
guzzles fuel at an alarming rate. Our so-called 'linger time' is
therefore severely limited. However, protruding forward from the
underside of my left wing is a long piece of tubing, approximately four
inches in diameter. It extends forward to a point where I can see the
forward end by looking down and to the left. This device is an
in-flight refuelling probe. By linking this probe with a hose trailed
behind a tanker aircraft, we are able to receive fuel in the air. One
of our tasks today is to rendezvous with an American Air Force tanker
and take on enough fuel to complete our second task.
Danny falls in beside me again although he is now some five hundred
feet to my right. John has been using his radar to find the tanker and
now he announces that the American is twenty miles ahead of us. Slowly,
we close the distance until, at around five miles, I can see the big
aircraft against the darkening sky. The vapour trails from his four
engines point a white pathway to our goal. It would be a very simple
matter for me to simply fly along the contrail but John has other
ideas. He gives me a series of complicated course changes which I
follow obediently, knowing that from his cockpit, he cannot actually
see the tanker. I decide to play him along by claiming that I cannot
see the big aircraft and ask him if he is absolutely certain that we
are going in the right direction. When I tire of the sport, I admit to
having visual contact. He mutters darkly about bloody pilots and
childish games. It pleases me to irritate him so because we are very
good friends and I know that he will bear me no malice when we
land.
We creep up behind the tanker. I have reduced our closing speed to less
than five miles per hour. We are one hundred feet behind him. I make a
short radio transmission to tell him so, and he tells me that the hose
is coming out. A long fuel hose unwinds from behind the aircraft. At
the end of the hose there is a conical device known as the basket. It
is my function to manoeuvre the aircraft so as to engage the end of the
probe on my aircraft into this basket. The closing speed must be very
precise. Too fast, and the probe will push the basket aside and even
possibly break the end off the probe. Too slow, and the two will not
latch and no fuel can flow. I need to hit the basket dead centre with a
closing speed of precisely four miles per hour. Buffeting around in the
tanker's slipstream, this is not a simple task. I juggle with the
throttle and with the airbrakes to maintain an honest direction and the
correct speed. The disturbed and turbulent air disturbed by the
tanker's progress causes the basket to oscillate violently. It is akin
to threading a needle wearing boxing gloves whilst riding a monocycle.
The ride in our aircraft is uncomfortable and John complains bitterly.
At last, the deed is done, and we are locked to the tanker.
The connection is confirmed and the precious fuel starts to flow at one
hundred gallons per minute. I have to draw three hundred gallons from
our benefactor. Three minutes is an eternity in this situation. Exact
position has to be maintained or the connection will be broken.
Eventually, I tell the tanker crew that we have taken sufficient for
our needs. I thank him most kindly and ask if he might care to check
our oil and wash the windshield. He laughs and tells me you're welcome
buddy. Yew-all have a nice day now. I reduce power and drop away from
the tanker.
John and I watch as Danny sidles up to the rear of the tanker rather
like a thief in the night. I note with some measure of satisfaction
that he makes three attempts at engaging the hose before finally taking
on his fuel. He will have to buy me a drink in the mess for that
terrible display. When we have both drunk our fill, we break away from
the American, push the throttles all the way forward to engage the
afterburners and climb hard to near our maximum height of fifty
thousand feet. From this giddy altitude, the curvature of the earth is
clearly visible and the sky is a dense black. At this height even in
daytime the stars are visible but at night the view is astounding. The
whole sky is a mass of pinpricks of light, each competing for priority
in the vision of the beholder. If a man were committed to the
contemplation of infinity then this empty place would be the ideal
location for such a pursuit. Here, on the very edge of space, many
airmen have reconsidered their earthbound views on the existence of a
Supreme Being. The view of our home from up here is of a beautiful,
undisturbed planet. There is little indication of the seething unrest,
the minor wars or the injustices with which we are bombarded on a daily
basis when on the surface.
I snap out of my daydream as John's voice gives me a course to steer
towards our target. The target is some thirty thousand feet below us
and one hundred miles ahead of us. I order Danny into line astern
formation and we dive steeply. The engines are throttled back to flight
idle and we have our dive brakes extended lest we exceed the maximum
speed of the airframe. Because we are descending at almost free fall
velocity, we are almost weightless. We are closing on our target very
fast. Time to range is four minutes, John advises me. I lift the guard
on the arming switch and set the missiles alive. They are devious
beings, the missiles. Once armed, they will hunt out a heat source
emanating from their prey and fix it with a beady electronic eye. I
watch the indications on my display as the missile looks around
hungrily. It settles and starts to emit the warning tone, telling me
that it has found a target and that it is anxious to get to work.
I wait until the tone builds to an anxious howl before pressing the
'commit' button on the control column. If the missile were real, it
would fire its rocket motors and scream off into the darkness,
following the guidance given by its sensors. Escape from one of these
creatures of destruction is not generally possible although several
skilful pilots have been able to achieve this. In our case, our
missiles are not live which is a blessing, since our target is the
benevolent tanker, now cast in the role of an invading bomber. Since
the range at which we 'launched' the missile was within the correct
parameters and a solid 'lock' had been obtained, I am able to assume
that our attack was successful. I tell John 'Splash one tanker!' Danny
lines up in turn and once again the superiority of the guided missile
over a Boeing tanker is proven.
Our tasks for the evening are completed. Ahead of us lies the laborious
de-briefing with the Squadron Tasking Officer and the interminable
reports about everything from engine performance to radar
serviceability. Danny and I fly along the runway at three hundred feet
and close to four hundred miles per hour before pulling up and breaking
for a tight right turn, a sedate run downwind and a stream landing, one
behind the other. As we taxi back to the Squadron, I tell Danny that he
owes me a beer to compensate for the terrible mess that he made of the
refuelling. He laughs and says that I owe him three beers for the
bloody awful awful landing.
It's a pretty good life really, being a warrior. Certainly beats
working.